


moth wings and other apologies

by honeyyhop



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Grief/Mourning, Reconciliation, non-canon interpretations of techno because I said so, self indulgent pain, unlikely allies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29894931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyyhop/pseuds/honeyyhop
Summary: They meet at the crossroads.Technoblade feels too much.Tubbo doesn’t feel anything at all.“Step aside, kid.”Or, Technoblade and Tubbo cross paths following Tommy's death.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 107





	moth wings and other apologies

The funeral’s a mess.

Tubbo has nothing to do with it, for once. He doesn’t have much to do with anything anymore. Snowchester is _his_ \- well, as much as he can physically lay claim to it - but most days it feels like everything, even his home, is beyond his control. The snowstorms belong to nothing but themselves. He’s out of place in his own ice-dusted house. Jack is barely around anymore, and when he is, he’s distant, as if his mind is somewhere else. He’s not _here,_ not really. He says he’s got big plans. Tubbo still doesn’t know what he means. He only sees Charlie for fleeting moments - Eret, too. 

He has Puffy, and he has Foolish, close by. He sees Sam, sometimes, too.

_Is it enough?_

The one time he feels as if he’s supposed to be leading, supposed to be doing _something, anything,_ Sam and Puffy steer him aside, pairs of hands on his shoulders, one sturdy and one soft. Their eyes are warm, Puffy’s pupils so round he can barely see her brown irises and Sam, eyes lidded with exhaustion. They’re trying. 

_Is it enough?_

Sam says he’s got it all under control. At least someone does. Tubbo lets himself be carried away. 

Puffy looks at him with tears squeezed between her lashes when she blinks, with gentle pity. He doesn’t know why it makes him so angry, makes him want to scream at her to stop looking, stop waiting for him to break. 

He won’t. He wouldn’t. 

Would he?

He’s waiting too, in his own twisted way. At any moment, he expects himself to crumble, to shatter. To lose himself. He waits, and he’s terrified the longer he _doesn’t._ Isn’t it normal, to _snap_ in moments of grief? He’s been bent this way and that for all of his life, stretched to his limits, and yet he still can’t find it in himself to let it out. This should be the final straw. Instead, it’s just another shitty hand he’s been dealt, again and again. It doesn’t end. 

He just wanders, aimless and helpless. Everyone’s watching him. They always are. Their eyes always chain him, no matter what uniform he’s wearing. He’s long since abandoned the remains of his nation and hidden in Snowchester, nurturing weapons and his own aching heart, but this tragedy gives the others an opportunity to find him, to come nosing into when, exactly, he’ll break. 

He can’t stay strong forever.

  
That’s what he heard Puffy whisper. It still leaves his throat tight and hands clammy with sweat, trying to hold himself. It’s as if they _want_ him to crack. They want him to hurt - or at least, _show it. Why?_ Does it make them feel better about an unjustified death if _everyone_ is sobbing over an empty grave? Does it make the loss mean any less if Tubbo doesn’t let himself _feel it?_

He can’t feel it. Because then he’d be feeling everything else - guilt. Regret. The scattered remains of everything he should have, _would have_ said if only he had the time. The apologies. The ‘thank you’s - the hugs. 

God, the hugs. 

Ranboo’s staying in Snowchester for a while until things blow over, and they’ve discovered that, thanks both to his height and his expression, people tend to give him a wide berth. When they see an extremely tall half-enderman guarding Tubbo, they think twice about coming to bother him. The trouble is, Tubbo can’t take him everywhere, and Ranboo still has other people to please; he lives with Techno and Phil now. He hasn’t tried asking Ranboo to come and live in Snowchester, doesn’t think it’s appropriate given the circumstances. 

Ranboo would refuse, anyway, bound in dozens of apologies and polite smiles. He still thinks he owes Technoblade something, and once Techno has a hold of you, it’s hard to get free. Tommy knew that-

_Tommy._

His name is a landmine that Tubbo tries his best to skirt, but some days it’s all he can cling to.

_Oh, Tommy. Why’d you have to go that one last time?_

Stupid. _Stupid._ Stupid of Tubbo to let him go anywhere near that prison, stupid of Tommy to even get _close_ to Dream. Don’t they know, by now, that Dream is bad? Why did Sam let him in? 

Why didn’t Sam save him?

“I’ll fix it,” Sam says, when Tubbo discovers that he bears no responsibility today, his shoulders sagging as if in silent apology.

“I’ll fix it,” Sam says, as he paces the prison and Dream’s cold laughter never ends.

“I’ll fix it,” Sam says, as he wraps a L’Manburg flag around nobody. 

“I’ll fix it,” Sam says. 

He can’t. He can’t put a lost child back together. 

On the morning of the funeral, Tubbo sits in the snow, numb and shivering and clutching at himself uselessly. Begging himself to _just fucking cry, already!_ He doesn’t. It’s just an unflinching silence. Even as the sun blooms over his head, the sky marred with strokes of white and pink, he just watches it shift helplessly. The world keeps turning. 

_Who am I without you?_

Footsteps crunch behind him.

“Tubbo,” Ranboo murmurs softly. He holds a clump of grass in his hand and a single purple flower, and with his long, spindly arms, he offers it to Tubbo with a tentative smile. “Hey, there.”

He doesn’t take it, and he feels half-bad as Ranboo withdraws. Surely, he understands. 

“Hey.” He tries to will life into his voice, but his teeth chatter slightly from the cold. Ranboo notices that; he notices most things, but he won’t keep the memories for long. His concern is fleeting. 

“I gotta go home, Tubbo.” It’s not home, not really. It’s only temporary. Or at least, Tubbo tells himself that to fill the empty space when Ranboo isn’t around. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Or something like that.”

“You _are_ coming back? Not having too much fun off gallivanting with your family?” He catches himself before Ranboo has time to react, and swallows. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” he manages, but his eyes flicker nervously. “I can stay. I really can.” 

“No, it’s fine.” 

“I can-” 

“You don’t want Technoblade to be angry, do you? I’m sure he’s gotta, like, dress you up for the…” He stutters on the word. “The funeral.”

He’s good at sounding pleasant. He’s also good at sounding bitter, and cruel, and merciless, but it hurts him more than it hurts his target, and Ranboo doesn’t deserve the tiny traces of anger he’s able to show, so he turns his head away determinedly. It’s not as if Ranboo _has_ to go home. Sure, he has things to drop off, but he can keep them at Tubbo’s house if he really wants to; he guesses he’s just anxious to find out Techno’s stance on the funeral. 

It’s unspoken that Technoblade and Phil wouldn’t be welcomed anywhere near the nation they destroyed, and probably don’t particularly care about Tommy anymore, if they harbour the resentment that he abandoned them like Tubbo assumes they do. _That_ was Tubbo’s fault, too. Everything gets blamed on him or Tommy.

Well, not anymore. 

Just him. No one wants to blame a dead boy.

Ranboo is silent for a long time. Silently, he bends down and places the grass and flower - _allium,_ Tubbo remembers dully - by his side. It sits lopsided in the melted patch of snow and mud. “Don’t stay here forever.”

“I won’t.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’m good.” He’s gotten so used to having to reassure people, over and over, so much that the words feel leaden on his tongue. It’s simply mechanical, now. _He’s good. He’s good. He’s good._ Until he has no choice but to believe it himself. 

“Hang on.” 

He’s sitting in his green collared shirt, the breeze on his arms. After a moment of shuffling, he feels a thick coat wrapped around his shoulders. Unblinkingly, he reaches up with both hands to grasp it, the furry hood and the thick pelt that’s far too big for him falling to his hips, and sinks into the sudden warmth. He draws it up and over his knees, curling into it. It smells like Ranboo - like damp dirt and cut grass and magic. A hand pats his shoulder. 

“Stay safe.”

“You, too.” 

After a beat of hesitation, he hears the light footsteps retreating, but it feels like Ranboo’s eyes never leave him behind. They know what he’s trying to hide. He’s trying, he really is, just like the rest of them, to be a good friend.

_It’s not enough._

He takes one hand and crushes the allium in his fist. 

* * *

Technoblade isn’t supposed to be here. He knows that. All it takes is for someone to catch a flash of his pink hair and he has a knife in his back or an arrow in his chest. Neither is preferable. It’s not in its usual braid today, curly and almost to his hips; he’s been tying it back less and less without Wilbur to braid it for him, and even today he refused Phil from offering to do it in his stead. It’s not the same. He’s drawing extra attention to himself, and usually he wouldn’t be so careless. 

Besides, he figures if he looks presentable, the sheep of L’Manburg will see him as a threat, and today of all days he doesn’t want to get blood on his hands.

The entire boat trip here the voices were almost unbearable, hissing spiteful curses and pleas, so much so that even Ranboo noticed. 

It was shameful to have to grit out, “worse than usual,” between his teeth, head in hands as if it was nothing but a mere headache rather than a migraine of hateful speech and his fingertips itching to grasp at a blade. Ranboo had the sense to look concerned. 

They walk together now, and they _must_ look like an odd pair, Techno thinks - the stupidly tall half-enderman with his flowers and the Blood God without his armour. Ranboo has given him a flower to hold. A blue one. He feels ridiculous. He has his cloak around him, almost hiding in it, and at once it’s almost as if he’s a kid again, with a giant red cloak embroidered with hearts that Phil gave him, huddled under the fur hood with Wilbur. 

If Tommy saw him like this, he’d bark out wild laughter, kicking out his legs and gripping his stomach in the way that Techno is so achingly familiar with. He’d say it’s ridiculous, too! 

Technoblade halts, his breath stuttering in his throat. Even now, that stupid kid is still haunting him. His laughter is still chasing him down the street. His betrayal still stings as if it were yesterday. 

_I know I acted like a prick._

_But did you really have to go?_

He thought they were okay, just the three of them. Techno, Phil, Tommy. He had lured himself into thinking that things were good. 

They can’t be good - can _never_ be good, as long as the spirit of L’Manburg is still endowed firmly within him. Whether it’s ash and rubble or not, he’ll always go back to that symphony. He’d be there now, as a ghost, making it an art to piss off everyone who comes to mourn him. 

_Damned idiot._

When he found out, he laughed. The words didn’t fit. Tommy. Dead. They don’t go together. Techno filled the room with nervous laughter, Phil chiming in with uncertainty. It’s a cruel joke to tell, he thinks. Technoblade never dies - _and neither does that kid._

Ranboo, a few paces ahead, notices he’s alone and turns in alarm, eyes wide. In the distance, Techno can see shapes bobbing in the sunlight, their voices hushed and brittle.

_Blood. Blood for the Blood God -_

“Oh, shut up,” he mutters, and Ranboo’s head snaps up. “ _Not you.”_

They’re there. Watching him. Waiting for him. There’ll be cries of alarm when he walks out into the emptiness. There’ll be enraged yells. There’ll be weapons brandished at him. No one will trust him, sit near him, will dare to try to talk. 

It’s fine. He supposes he deserves it, for what he did. He’s been told he should manage his temper. 

_Hah._

Ranboo’s waiting for him, eyes pitiful. Technoblade hates it - stop _looking_ at him like that, like he’s breakable. He isn’t. Refuses to be. When will Ranboo stop looking at him as if he shouldn’t be ashamed to be weak? He should. He’s supposed to.

“Go on ahead, Ranboo,” he says, voice low. 

“But-” 

“Go on.” 

Ranboo takes a step back, gaze frantic. He doesn’t want to go on alone - of course he doesn’t! The folks here trust him slightly more than Techno, but that doesn’t exactly make him welcome. There’ll be suspicious eyes everywhere. Yes, Technoblade should be good. Be nice. Escort the young troubled boy to his peer’s funeral. 

_Be a good big brother, for once._

He’s failed twice.

Why try again? He’s letting Ranboo stay with him, letting Phil get attached to him, so it’s not as if he’s totally evil. There has to be good left in him. Has to be _something_ left behind.

Maybe Tommy and Wilbur will get along in the afterlife. That’s enough to hope for, right? 

He sees Ranboo leave. Sees him glance nervously over his shoulder, then flee, clutching his flowers to his chest, tail flicking in agitation behind him. He’ll figure himself out. He’s fine.

Technoblade crosses to the wall of a building and sags against it, his hair snagging cobwebs. It’s one of the last structures standing on the path into L’Manburg. Technoblade did that. Phil and Dream, too. 

Dream, the killer. 

He’s known this for ages. Dream’s capable of more than what he reveals in his sly glances and coy smiles, likes to look innocent until the knife’s in your back. Dream has always had the spark of something threatening in him. Technoblade didn’t care at the time, had no reason to. 

He once protected Tommy from him. Now he feels like an idiot. It doesn’t happen often, and he hates it. He could have done something. _Could be good._

_You don’t have to be a monster._

In Tommy’s eyes, he is. Tommy died still cursing Techno with all of his naive heart. He’s the manifestation of all things evil and cruel. Crushing dreams beneath his heel. Stomping on butterflies just to watch them suffer. Peeling the wings from moths to watch them die. _Monster._

Techno’s hand goes for the phantom of the weapon he’d usually have strapped to his belt, an instinct. 

_God,_ he thinks, _why did I come here?_

Tommy wouldn’t want him here. Quackity would sooner stab him where he stood than let him anywhere near the kid’s grave. Phil knew he wouldn’t be welcomed, and stayed behind. Where he belongs. Why can’t Technoblade take a hint and do the same? 

He came anyway. Why? Technoblade is stubborn that way, thinks he owns anything that he takes a liking to. Was that the problem, he wonders; that he ever thought he _had_ Tommy in the first place. The kid left him; fluttered away. He’s free. He couldn’t chain something like that even if he tried. 

His gaze flickers down to the flower in his hand. Ranboo would know what it’s called; he knows little, innocent things like that whereas Technoblade crushes them with a fist. They’ll always be a bit different. There’s no one quite like the Blood God. 

The petals look like insect wings. Wings to peel off, another plaything to torment. He made Tommy struggle in just the same way. Between sharp fingers, he plucks a petal off and watches it plunge to the ground, like blood spattering the stone. Watches the breeze pick it up and abandon it again and again.

Techno’s eyes waver. His mouth wobbles.

He _is_ the villain. It comes in a rush of exhilaration, then shame. He’s always been a villain. It doesn’t even feel like a bad word anymore. It’s been branded across his chest like a scarlet letter so often that he might as well wear it like his crown. It’s his pride.

His fatal flaw. 

He’s hurt people, and he doesn’t regret it. _Most of the time._

If there’s anything he regrets destroying, it’s Tommy. Tommy, who smiles too big and laughs too loud and fills up a room with his delight. Tommy, who seems to float with energy. He might as well have wings.

Technoblade ripped them off one too many times, and now he’s gone.

He tucks the flower into his hair, behind his ear, where he won’t crush it, a soft unspoken vow. It’s the least he can do to make sure this never happens again. 

_Someone has to watch out for Ranboo._

Technoblade shoves off from the wall. 

“Hold on, Ranboo,” he mutters under his breath. “I’m comin’.” 

* * *

Tubbo lingers for too long. He’s bursting at the seams. He hasn’t seen Ranboo pass yet. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for - if he’s waiting for his friend, or a sign to abandon him and go home. He really shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t let them see him.

They’ll think something’s wrong with him. 

It’s lonely here, with nothing but the wind and sky to keep him company. He can’t hear anyone whispering anymore; everyone’s moved on, not wanting to look at the rubble for longer than necessary. He must have missed Ranboo, he thinks helplessly. He’ll have to walk in alone. They’ll all turn their heads over their shoulders to watch him walk the path that Tommy has marched over dozens of times before him, have to trail that legacy. Their eyes will watch him stumble, or run, or choke-

He can’t just hide and pretend it’s not real. It is. There’s no shoulder to cry on now - no one to tell him that he’s safe. No more tears.

_Nothing bad’s gonna happen to you, big man. Not as long as I’m around._

He’s not around. 

_I can’t feel you anymore, Tommy. I can’t feel you._

He purses his lips and keeps walking. One foot in front of the other. One step, two steps, three - 

His back to the prison, and eyes on a figure walking in the middle of the path. Every time he sees distant shapes he can’t help but see flashes of blond hair and broad grins, a lanky frame that skips down the path when no one’s watching. 

They lift their head, and pink hair catches the sunlight. It’s like seeing a smiley face in an ordinary letter; his panic swells. The man’s gait is even and undaunted, unflinching. He sees Tubbo. Sees the child whose home he destroyed. 

_Why is Technoblade here?_

For Tommy? No. He’s made it clear that he doesn’t care about Tommy anymore. Is he only here to make him suffer, to twist the handle of the knife already plunged in his heart? Everything already hurts. Technoblade couldn’t do a damn thing to make it worse. 

He’s already done enough. And Tubbo has already tried to kill him; what more could they do? Destroy his memory? 

_He doesn’t even have a fucking body!_

He keeps walking, barely breathing - as if he doesn’t move, he won’t be a threat. Techno won’t destroy anything else if Tubbo reduces himself to nothing but a mild inconvenience. 

They meet at the crossroads. 

Technoblade feels too much.

Tubbo doesn’t feel anything at all.

_“Step aside, kid.”_ Techno’s eyes are heavy and burdened, his mouth set in a grim line. Tubbo is startled at how… _young_ he looks. Techno’s always been someone untouchable, unrelatable. Merciless and impossible to understand. But with his hair unbound and woven with a single cornflower, with no armour, he seems vulnerable and unhappy and _real._

Not The Blade.

Just Techno.

Tubbo doesn’t move, blinking up at him. Frozen in place, eyes wide. 

“Do it.” 

“ _Eh?”_

“It’s not as if L’Manburg can get any worse.” 

Techno stares unflinching down at him, sinking deeper into his cloak with deep, nervous laughter. Tubbo’s filled with a sudden surge of bitterness; Tommy’s dead, and his so-called brother is _laughing._ The anarchist is chuckling in response to Tubbo, quiet and withdrawn and numbed. _It’s not fucking funny._

“I’m not here for you,” Techno manages, looking away. 

Tubbo’s breathing snags in his throat, a protest rising then falling away. There’s no words. He feels himself losing control. It’s real. When Ranboo looks at him sadly, it’s real. When Sam gets on his knees and says a husky sorry, over and over, it’s real. When Ant smiles where he thinks no one can see him, it’s real. When he faces Technoblade in the middle of the path, feeling blind, ugly grief rising in him, it’s real.

_Here for Tommy._

“Why?” he says dully, and Technoblade knows he doesn’t mean the funeral. _Why do you laugh when things go wrong? Why do you pretend not to care?_

_Why do I see myself in your eyes?_

“I…” Techno lets out a breathy chuckle that dies too quickly. He raises his brows. “Are you going to try and stop me?”   
  


He can’t tell if it’s a threat or not. He has the sudden sense that if Technoblade really wanted him gone, he’d already be dead, and as he stares at the man without armour or weapons or even an arrogant grin, he suddenly doesn’t _seem_ like the weapon they make him out to be; he seems too young. Too tired. 

_Like Tommy. Like me._

They’ve whispered over and over that he’ll snap - he will. It’s inevitable. Tubbo bears it all, sits quietly, keeps his head down. He takes it. _And why?_ Why does he now have to feel tears burning at his lashes, cradling his face between his hands; Tommy wouldn’t want him to cry. He doesn’t cry. _Tubbo doesn’t cry._

No tears. He promised he wouldn’t cry for Tommy. He won’t. 

Technoblade must think he’s nothing but a blathering idiot, hiding his face in his sleeves, trying to hold himself together. He stands unflinching, watching. He’s not exactly the kind to find sympathy in a _leader,_ a government _._ The thoughts come in a flurry - _go away go away go away._

Technoblade blinks once, slow and startled, then bows his head. It’s not respect, but simply an understanding. 

He knows. 

With one hand, Techno takes the flower from his hair and with his head bowed, eyes averted, he sticks out his hand and offers it to him. The boy stretches out a tentative hand, eyes stretched wide. The petals look like moth wings, Tubbo thinks. Like freedom. 

Like him.

“The kid, he… Tommy… he loves you more than you know.”

Tubbo’s face crumbles. 

He crashes into Technoblade’s chest and finally cries. 

* * *

Techno doesn’t usually like being touched. In part due to the voices that howl for blood, in part due to his own discomforts. He doesn’t admit to being scared - but there’s a thread of terror that if anyone comes close, the voices will claim them, even if he refuses to acknowledge it. Even Phil, who he’s closest to in the world, only comes close at wing’s length. When he needs something to cling to, something to hide beside, he has Steve. That’s enough.

He’s frozen when Tubbo begins to sob. Awful, _broken_ sobbing, with no breath left in him, the kind of cries that Technoblade knows are pent up until they explode. _Too close. Too close._

The kid’s choking, chest heaving with every sob, trying to stop himself. Technoblade stands helpless for a beat. He’s not gonna hurt this kid. He can’t. He won’t. Not when he’s like this. 

He’s not what Tommy thought he was.

With slow, tentative movements and shaking hands, he holds the boy, wrapping one half of his cloak around him, the flower crushed feebly to his chest squeezed between Tubbo’s fingers. He rests his chin atop his head. 

He lets Tubbo cry, and there’s not a damn ‘sorry’ that comes from his lips, and there doesn’t have to be. From the flower alone, he knows. 

For once, he doesn’t laugh it off. He’s quiet, but the silence spills out everything he’s been dying to say.

* * *

There’s not a lot that makes Technoblade soft anymore. But seeing Ranboo turn around amongst the whispers of horror and suspicion and beam from ear to ear as he sees Tubbo and Techno side by side, Techno with those winged petals in his hair and Tubbo with the flower to his chest, not speaking but seeming to silently revel in their temporary alliance - that might do it for him.


End file.
